


when the riverman runs

by wajjs



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: (i love the fact that such a tag exists), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Feels, Jason Todd-centric, Longing, M/M, Not Beta Read, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 05:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20353201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: Here’s the thing: if you set your heart on burning, you will always be lonesome.





	when the riverman runs

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song Riverman, by Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds

**when the riverman runs**

Where he stands, he's no king of the mountain, he has no title of ownership over any kind of world: not even the debris is his to call his own, not even the dust, not even the dirt. Where he stands, he has nothing and what he cradles is all he's ever had: the promise of greater things to come, the bitterness of anger, the coldness of revenge. Where he stands it dawns on him that he's never been an owner, always a thing to be claimed.

But he's been claimed thrice and neither one was for good. Maybe in all his potentials, all thwarted and mangled, he's got the one of being free. Trial by fire, trial by blood: the green of otherworld seeps into his veins and shakes off the vestiges of the claim of death and its toll.

Where he stands, he has nothing. He reaches into the air and grasps the stars, grinds them in his fingers and turns them into power. In this day and age, fighting back the chains is what he's best at. A man that came back from humanity into personhood, a man that came back from the world into spaces unknown.

And maybe he's not an owner, so he sets to destroy.

Here’s the thing: if you set your heart on burning, you will always be lonesome.

There’s no warm body that will replace the heat of the one you long for,

there’s no presence, no shadow, no light,

no dancing flames to throw someone out of your heart.

Here’s the thing: if you destroy all the roads that lead others to you,

you might reach out, you might dream of ill-fated reunions,

but you won’t have a path to travel through.

And you know, with blinding clarity, that regrets don’t suit you.

He doesn’t know, in the way many memories are muddled and dirtied with green and worms, if what he remembers is a memory or the memory of a wish. He lays in bed and stares at the ceiling, eyes unblinking and wide open. One by one, he traces the feelings: the ghost of a mouth on his lips, the press of fingers on his hips. There’s never the sensation of shadowed eyes burning into him, never the mirage of heat. Maybe, just maybe, this one is on him and there’s no one to blame.

Each night he goes out and fights the world is a night of empty spaces. He reclaims them for an hour, for two, he takes the reins till dawn comes and he allows himself to slip into nothingness again. Each night is a silent whisper and the eternal waiting of something that’s on the brink of extinction.

He walks into his own places and accepts the solitude of every threshold that remains uncrossed.

The color of his blood is painting the world around him in his tones. This is his last mark, a desperate one, and he thinks for a second that even if his remains are to be scrubbed clean off every surface, the imprint will always be there, will never be gone. There’s nothing to corrode the dirt of his blood.

Bruce’s hands are red like his helmet and Bruce’s brows are set in the classic frown. There are no words and no silence, yet even the sound seems far gone. It’s a good thing that back in the day they were all trained to read lips, it’s a bad thing, because here lays the final mark to make him come undone:

“Not letting you go. Not. Again.”

The world outside him is burning. His eyes drift towards a glass cage, a costume, the ghost of himself.  _ Look at you _ , each apparition says to each other,  _ isn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t this what you needed? Why are you slipping away from it, then? Why are you leaving? _

When several mornings come and he arises, the warmth and softness of a bed that smells like home makes him turn to the nearest window and run. This one’s on him alright. He knows when he’s somewhere he doesn’t belong.

  
  


In all the wrong someones you look for the one you dream of.

In all the wrong someones you find that you don’t feel accomplished,

you aren’t complete and you aren’t alive.

In all the wrong someones you discover that you are as gone as the day you died.

In his ever growing solitude, Jason unwinds in the comfort of his bed. Hand gripping himself, head thrown back, a feverish flush to his skin, he chants the only prayer he’s ever known:

_ Bruce,  _

_ Bruce,  _

_ Bruce,  _

_ Bruce. _


End file.
